The weak light of the campfire flickered inside the cave, casting elongated shadows on the damp stone walls. The scent of wet earth and moss lingered in the air, mixed with the odor of burnt meat, remnants of the last meal. The tribe was still asleep, sprawled across the packed dirt floor, nestled among old furs and straw. The only sounds were the snores of the older goblins, accompanied by the occasional crackle of burning wood.
Grekh slowly opened his eyes. The rocky ceiling of the cave was the first thing he saw every morning, stained by time and the soot of countless fires. He turned his head and saw the other goblins piled on top of each other, sleeping in a disorderly fashion, as was their custom. The warmth of their bodies helped ward off the night's cold.
He sat up, stretching in silence. His lean and agile body was not as strong as the tribe's warriors, but it was fast and resilient. He pulled a piece of old leather over his shoulders like a cloak and stepped out of the cave, careful not to step on the dry branches scattered near the entrance.
The faint light of dawn was beginning to paint the sky in shades of blue, still interwoven with the black mantle of night. The dense forest stretched before him, damp and silent. Gnarled trees rose like ancient sentinels, their exposed roots twisting together, forming a natural labyrinth. Grekh took a deep breath. The morning air was always purer before the day's heat brought the acrid stench of rotting carcasses further inside the cave.
He looked around. Some goblins were beginning to stir inside the cave, but most were still asleep. Taking advantage of the quiet moment, he walked toward a small stream that ran not far away. The water was shallow but clear, reflecting a distorted image of his face as he crouched down to drink.
His yellow eyes stared at his own reflection on the trembling surface of the water. His greenish-gray skin was darker than that of most goblins, making him harder to spot at night. His long ears bore small nicks and scars, souvenirs of past fights and hunts. His black hair fell in messy tufts over his eyes, as unkempt as ever.
He sighed.
— Tsk...
He splashed his face with water and rubbed his cold hands against his skin, feeling the shock of the cold wake him up completely.
It was time to start the day.
For goblins, life was simple: survive.
The strongest hunted. The weakest gathered. The elders taught, when they were in the mood. The youngest… well, most didn't live long enough to worry about that.
Grekh was part of the gathering group. He wasn't weak, but he wasn't strong enough to hunt alone either. His job was to fetch firewood, roots, and anything else useful to the tribe. He had learned early on that complaining changed nothing, so he did his tasks in silence.
In the clearing in front of the cave, a group of older goblins was sharpening crude spears. They were rough weapons, made from fire-hardened branches and chipped stones. Nothing compared to the iron weapons of humans. But for goblins, they would do.
By the fire, one of the warrior goblins, a brute named Gnarz, was tearing strips of dried meat from a carcass. His gaze met Grekh's for a brief moment.
— You there, runt — he growled, his voice hoarse and deep. — Go fetch some firewood. And don't come back empty-handed.
Grekh didn't answer, only nodded. Questioning orders was never a good idea.
He grabbed a worn leather sack and headed into the forest.
The forest was dense, but Grekh knew its paths well. He knew where to find dry branches, where to dig for roots, and which areas to avoid. Humans rarely ventured this far, but it wasn't impossible for patrols to appear.
He walked for a while, gathering wood and herbs. The sounds of the forest were the same as always: the rustling of leaves, the buzzing of insects, the distant calls of birds. But something felt… wrong.
Grekh stopped, furrowing his brow.
Silence.
For a moment, he realized that the usual forest sounds had disappeared. No birds, no rustling leaves. Just an oppressive stillness, as if nature itself were holding its breath.
He looked around, his instincts screaming in alarm.
Then he heard it.
A metallic sound, distant.
Hooves?
Grekh's heart quickened.
He hid behind a tree, peeking out cautiously. Through the trees, on the dirt road leading to human lands, he saw a small group of mounted figures. Human warriors.
They were still far, but Grekh recognized the silhouette of their armor. Spears on their backs, swords at their belts, the glint of metal catching the morning light. He clenched his teeth.
Trainers.
He had heard the stories. Humans who used goblins to train their new soldiers. They would enter forests, raid tribes, slaughter without hesitation. Not out of necessity, but for sport.
They were still far away. They didn't seem to have noticed the cave. Maybe it was just a routine patrol. Maybe they were just passing through.
But a chill ran down Grekh's spine.
He didn't like "maybe."
Gripping his sack, he started back toward the cave as quickly as possible.
Grekh rushed into the cave, his heart still pounding. He went straight to where Gnarz was and crouched beside him.
— Humans. I saw warriors in the forest.
Gnarz let out a rough laugh, tearing another piece of dried meat with his teeth.
— So what? Humans pass by all the time.
— But they were armed. On horseback. They looked like trainers — Grekh insisted.
Gnarz clicked his tongue and tossed aside an empty bone.
— If they come, we fight. If they don't, bad luck for them. Now shut up and bring more firewood.
Grekh hesitated.
He wanted to say more, to insist. But he knew that in the tribe, the weak had no voice.
He looked around. The other goblins were busy—eating, sharpening weapons, going about their lives.
No one cared.
No one ever cared.
A knot formed in his stomach. Something bad was about to happen. He knew it.
But at that moment, no one listened.
And when night fell, it would already be too late.